


Buried in the Woods

by MoonstoneMama



Category: Castlevania (Cartoon), 悪魔城ドラキュラ | Castlevania Series
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dreams and Nightmares, Enemies to Lovers, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Period-Typical Racism, Post-Season/Series 03, Slow Burn, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:15:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25532710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonstoneMama/pseuds/MoonstoneMama
Summary: When Isaac lays siege to Carmilla's palace Hector is no longer the man Isaac remembers him to be, and he is forced to make a choice...
Relationships: Hector/Isaac (Castlevania), Hector/Isaac Laforeze
Comments: 73
Kudos: 118





	1. Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> A scrumptious pie full of thank you to peachBitch1, for beta-ing this one for me!!!

_Taking the magician’s city had undoubtedly been a difficult feat._

Isaac knows better than to deny he might have felt overly confident that evening when he defeated the mad magician. He tried to assure himself at first that it was a calculated risk, that he was in control, but the injuries it left him with told of quite a different story. He had been foolish, leaving his body compromised in the process. It would not happen again.

It took Isaac longer than he liked to admit to replenish his armies, the mending of his body making it an arduous task despite his methods being quick and efficient. Isaac is unsure how many slaves had been ensnared by the magician, but he takes comfort in the thought that their corpses now serve a greater purpose. He is, in a way, taking the remnants of a demented man’s tyranny and turning it into something better, something that is whole and pure, _simple._

The mad sorcerer’s unfinished city had been blessedly isolated, having drained its nearby settlements to add to its hive mind of drones. Isaac doubts there are maps in existence that betray its existence, and whoever had heard the tale would be wise enough to heed its warning. It left his presence undetected and granted him ample time to work, explore, stew over his plans and tactics. 

Isaac traces his hand over the wooden surface of his most valued possession, its brass embellishments cold and metallic under his fingers. He had found himself a quiet spot to rest, though he knew it was a stretch to call it that. When did he ever rest when there’s still so much work to be done. He pulls the thick fabric of his cloak around him a little tighter where he sits, though it does little to shield himself from the faint drizzle that soaks into his clothes. He peers into the vacant streets, noting how the rain blankets everything in something soft, bleak, and intimately lonely, like an old, faithful dog that has never quite left his side.

Isaac recalls the merchant in Tunis who had gifted him this item with something like a melancholy fondness. The old man had laughed and joked with Isaac, treated him with kindness when everyone else shunned his presence. It's an emotion too brief for him to identify, flickering weakly like a flame in a drafty window sill. Isaac opens the lid.

“Sir mirror, show me my wish.” With a clap of his hands the shards hover into wakefulness, its surface shifting like a mirage as snow-capped mountains appear into view. Isaac weaves his fingers together, his chin resting on top of them as he studies his target.

Carmilla’s palace was built directly into the mountains. This had been an advantageous move from a defensive point of view, but would prove to be detrimental if one chose to attack from the inside, leaving its inhabitants with few ways to escape. There would be no need to breach the front gates if the transmission mirror allows him to open a portal wherever he sees fit. The structure’s lavish courtyard would likely be spacious enough to hold his entire army. 

Upon further inspection Isaac learns that Carmilla’s forces are significantly outnumbered; decimated during the siege on Brǎila, if he had to make an educated guess. 

There's a modest number of vampiric soldiers and human mercenaries present, accompanied by a meager horde of night creatures. They appear frailer than what Isaac remembers Hector’s creations to look like, their bodies scraggly and disproportionate, the familiar blue glow in their eyes devoid of the fire they once held. Isaac muses that his former colleague isn't particularly keen on his new captors, but he represses that train of thought before it can take hold. Hector’s well being is of no importance to his plan, not if the end goal is all the same: to end the traitor. 

The humans and night creatures may provide a modest threat if Isaac attacks during the day, but the sun’s presence would leave the vampires severely compromised. Even if the weather decides to turn against Isaac, it would still leave him with the element of surprise on his side. 

He would have to provide weapons from the armory, deck out the front lines with archers to neutralize attackers from atop the palace walls. Once that is dealt with, he plans on a clean sweep from front to back until his forces have found what he's looking for. There would be no survivors. It would be swift. Efficient. 

* * *

_A cage is still a cage; even one made of gold, even one lined with silk._

It is sundown when Hector wakes.

A dim light filters through his bedroom windows despite the heavy drapes that cover it, bearing a haze of pink and orange melted together. Hector watches absently from where he lies, curled up on a chaise in a far corner of the room and waits for it to fade into night. It won’t be long until the first rotation of servants arrives. Hector never sees them, but he knows they are there. He can tell from the way still steaming plates of food appear in the dining room, from the way his clothes are folded and sorted in his absence. 

Another hour before the first guard arrives, coming to escort him to his forge, as is the routine on most evenings. There had been a time when he relished the calm and predictability of routine. Now it stings him like salt to an open wound, for it is yet another layer to the golden cage Lenore and her sisters confine him to, and Hector is painfully aware of it. It’s the same as with every other aspect of their dynamic; In the end, he doesn't really have a choice.

Hector had tried to make conversation with the guards at some point, when he buckled under the need to speak with anyone other than Lenore. It did not work. He suspects Carmilla had given her staff direct orders not to interact with him. He suspects this is the way Lenore _prefers_ it to be, to keep him solely reliant on her for all of his wants and needs, knowing he’d rather not invoke her ire. It is the glaring fault to his human condition after all. Being social animals by nature, humans do not function well on their own. He will talk to her if he must. 

Hector shifts on top of his makeshift bed, kicks off the woolen blanket with his feet so he can stretch the lingering stiffness from his limbs. His skin seems to cloy to his bones as if it has grown too tight for him to live in, like old, sun worn leather stretched beyond its capacity. His heart flutters wildly behind his breastbone. He feels lightheaded, scattered from how he’s been drifting between sleep and wakefulness. Hector doesn’t remember a time after Styria when he ever fully slept, the same way wild animals remain alert even while at rest.

There is a bed centered against the back wall of his room. It is large and comfortable to the point of nearly being ludicrous, just like Lenore had promised, yet he cannot bring himself to sleep in it. It scalds him from the corner of his eye, the memories that cling there an oppressive weight in the room: Lenore looking up at him with deceiving eyes, her breath frigid at his ear, her touch acrid as it coaxed a false kind of pleasure from his flesh. His stomach suddenly churns with the urge to heave despite that there’s nothing in it.

Hector hoists himself from his spot and strips in front of the mirror adjoining the wardrobe. He does so deliberately, forcing himself to meet his own reflection despite the nausea that wells at the sight of it. 

Over the course of the year it took Dracula to prepare his armies, Hector had indulged himself in the opportunity to improve his craft. He had found the nearly mint corpse of a rabbit once, and kept it in an isolated area to study the various stages of decomposition. Each day, he would gather charcoal and parchment and drew a detailed sketch of what he saw with the intent to line them all up for comparison. This, he thinks, as he traces the deep hollows between his ribs with detached fascination is not so different.

Hector is distantly aware it should, in fact, shock him. It is not normal behavior to watch his own body deteriorate with a faint sense of morbid curiosity. Objectively, he is fully aware of this. Perhaps he had gotten overly comfortable around things that looked like they were either dead or dying. Maybe in a twisted sense he needed this to reclaim control over a body that no longer belonged to himself. Perhaps a spiteful and petty part of him does not want Lenore to think he looks _pretty,_ if it's something she clearly derives pleasure from. He decides it doesn't matter either way.

The light clinking of silverware and plates from the other room snaps him out of his thoughts. Hector whips his head around, the sound momentarily pulling him back into his cage, his ears straining for the quiet patter of servant's feet shuffling on the other side.

_Another half hour before he is once again set to work._

Hector sighs through his nose, his shoulders slumping with the air that leaves him. He walks over to the water basin and gives himself a cursory clean up. There’s no point in taking a bath if Lenore was going to get her hands all over him again later that evening. He considers working over hours just so he can avoid her. _His skin still feels tender from the last time he scrubbed it._ Without making an effort to dry himself off, he pulls out a fresh uniform from the wardrobe and that’s when the tremors start. 

That night when Lenore proudly revealed her own scheme to her sisters, Hector assumed it was the simmering, poorly restrained contempt under his skin that caused his left hand to shake as uncontrollably as it did. It did not stop, not after that night. The pain rattles along his nerves, and travels from his fingers up his arm, lancing through his spine in spikes of pure ice. Hector scrambles to reach for the back of the wardrobe. 

His fingers pry at the seam between the loosened boarding at the back of it. There, carved within the porous material of the wall lies a secret compartment. It is just large enough to hold a small jar of resin—painstakingly harvested from opium poppies—and a bottle of medical grade alcohol. Though relatively new on the market, laudanum proved to be an effective albeit addictive pain treatment. 

Lenore had raised a disbelieving eyebrow at him when he requested the ingredients under the pretense that he needed them to forge. It wasn’t a complete lie. Each item could perfectly aid the forging process, but he had no intentions to do so. 

Having witnessed him raise demons from hell in person, Carmilla had waved a dismissive hand at her sister’s skepticism. It had been enough to convince her this time. He _hates_ it when Lenore does that, the way she curates every detail of his life as if he were a _child._ He supposes that’s exactly what he is to her.

Hector tucks some of its contents under his tongue. It burns the inside of his mouth as he swirls it around. After thirty seconds or so, he spits the remainder into the sink. It is quick to settle in his blood, muddles his mind with a slow and liquidy fog that makes it just a little easier to forget. Eager to rid himself of the taste, he then proceeds to clean his teeth. The leftover bottle of laudanum finds its way back to its original hiding spot. His eyes linger on it as he shuts it away.

Hector is aware he could already have grown dependent. His body is becoming resistant to its effects, requiring him to increase the dosage on a steady basis. He knows there's a chance the nerve damage inflicted by the ring might be permanent. It _should_ worry him, how unphased he remains in spite of it.

Upon entering the dining room he is greeted by the sight of breakfast, or at least the closest thing there is to _breakfast_ at this hour. A rich, thick slice of toasted bread with smoked pork, black coffee, a large orange cut into orderly slices, served on delicate, white porcelain. None of it appeals to him.

He takes the coffee. The first sip is entirely too hot and bitter on his tongue. It makes him grimace, but it helps dampen some of the fatigue. After the majority has been drained, when Hector can no longer stomach the taste of it, he fumbles for his boots. Being unaccustomed to the Styrian cold, he had requested a pair of wool stockings from Lenore to warm his feet. That was _months_ ago. He still has yet to receive them.

The turning of a lock signals the arrival of his escort. Hector does not talk to them, doesn’t spare them a glance worthy of his attention. He knows it to be futile. 

The guard’s eyes are a cold presence at his back as they make the walk through the hostile, Styrian climate. Hector contemplates if there are changing seasons in Styria, or if he will have to live out his days through endless, perpetual winter. He tries not to think of it.

The electrical light ignites in his workshop with a metallic buzz that he still finds difficult to tune out. Hector reaches for all of his usual tools. He feels the weight of the hammer in his hands, notes how the balance is still off despite his multiple pleas to get it fixed. It does not belong to him, not fully. Carmilla had the foresight to pry the coins from his arcane focus, and had them embedded in a different one for him to work with, but it’s not _his_ hammer. 

A corpse has already been hauled upon the altar. A young girl, barely a woman by the looks of it. Her blood drained lips are a faint, purplish blue, contrasting starkly against the pallid color of her skin, her eyes distraught as they stare at him. Hector wonders if she could forgive him if he begged her to. He doubts it. 

The necromantic magic sputters to life at his core. Hector lifts the hammer and strikes.

* * *

_It was nearly_ _too easy to overthrow the Styrian stronghold._

Smoke billows in thick plumes from the Styrian mountain tops. Isaac's lungs are swamped with it, mingled with the stench of burnt, undead flesh and sulfur. Isaac coughs. He holds the loose end of his cloak to his mouth as he moves among the debris. It does little to appease the smell.

His children are growing restless now that the battle is over, knowing they are not allowed to eat until their master wills it so. They scamper among the carnage like feral cats fighting over new territory, eager and jittery to sate their gluttony. 

A strong gust whips the loose garment about his frame, blinding his vision in a flurry of icy particles. There’s a storm approaching, its shadow bleak and ominous against the horizon. He needs to make haste. Such terrain would be difficult to navigate come nightfall.

A distant chittering stirs him from his thoughts. Isaac recognizes it to be a troupe of his scouts, demonic hounds designed for speed and agility.

"Find me the traitor," he shouts. "Bring me to him."

The largest member of the pack comes to an abrupt halt at the command. It turns to Isaac and looks at him with flaming, red eyes as though anticipating for its master to follow. 

Isaac knows an invitation when he sees one.

The demon leads Isaac further into the palace's rundown structure, down to the lower levels, past the lifeless remains of humans, vampires and night creatures alike. Isaac does not mourn their death. It comes to all those who are loyal. He was willing to accept that for Dracula, had Hector's betrayal not prevented it.

It was the second time the immortal had saved Isaac's life, but it came at a terrible cost. Before their paths had crossed, Isaac lived an aimless existence, without much sense or purpose. His solitary life had been quiet and mostly peaceful, but it lacked direction. The emptiness that came in its stead was like a shadow gaining on him, revenge being the sole force that kept him ahead of it.

The hound pulls to a halt at a gaping archway, its iron reinforced doors barely holding onto its hinges, as if something had forcefully pried its way inside. Judging by its location, Isaac assumes this must have been a smithy at some point. It should not surprise him. It is every bit like Carmilla to equate the art of forging to mundane labor. His fingers trace the grooves that litter the hardwood surface. Claw marks, Isaac recognizes them to be, though he cannot tell if it was by a creature of his own making or not. 

“So you’ve finally found me,” a familiar voice greets him upon entering. 

“If you were expecting me, then you must know why I am here.” Isaac’s gaze sweeps the room. The space is windowless, its ceiling high and dusty, scarcely lit by electrical installments that cast a pale light. Hector sits somewhere near the far end of it, his back flattened against an altar that looks just as spartan as the rest of the interior. His legs are haphazardly splayed over the dirt packed floor. His free hand, red and sticky with something viscous, hovers protectively over the arm hanging limply against his side.

Two of his hellhounds circle around Isaac as he draws closer, rejoining the third one that has already gotten to his former associate. It looms over Hector, its lips curled back into a snarl, its fur raised in hackles at the mane of its neck. The fabric on Hector’s arm hangs in shreds around the injured area, the color stained to a rusty brown where blood has seeped into it. 

“You’ve come to kill me.” Hector meets Isaac’s stare from where he sags. His eyes are unnervingly calm, as if Isaac were a ghost and Hector was peering right through him.

Isaac pulls his hood back for Hector to see his face. Up close like this, he cannot help but notice the change in the other forgemaster. Hector looks much thinner than how he remembers him, his skin paler, his ashen hair duller. Dark shadows sit heavy under his eyes as if he hasn’t slept in weeks.

His uniform—decorated in the livery of Styria—hangs awkwardly about his frame. The entire sight reminds Isaac of a pet monkey, entertaining and useful, but ultimately harmless. It is... not what Isaac had expected. The tiny surge of doubt it inspires is sudden and wholly unwelcome. Isaac ignores it.

“I am in no position to ask you for favors—” 

“Then why are you asking?" Isaac snaps.

"Please,” Hector straightens where he sits. It makes him wince. “As former colleagues, I ask you for one final request."

It’s an underhanded move to purposefully recall a time when they fought under the same banner, hoping it will instill some sympathy in his soon to be murderer. Wittingly or unwittingly, Hector is playing a dangerous game. Despite the indignant flare it provokes, Isaac does not like to make rash decisions.

“Speak your request.”

“I wish to die a free man.” 

Isaac's fingers grip around his dagger. He eyes Hector warily as the other man lifts his hand for Isaac to see, revealing an unassuming, black and red braided ring. It glares at Isaac from the other man’s finger, heavy and foreboding like a shrill ringing in his ears. _Cursed._

“I need you to amputate it,” Hector tells him. “I can’t take it off, not by myself. Only Carmilla and her sisters know how to undo its magic.”

 _“It_ being exactly what?”

Hector swallows thickly. His voice cracks as if the words ache on their way out. “It’s a slave ring.” 

It shocks him. Despite all of the cruelty Carmilla is known for, he did not expect her to aim this low. Isaac studies the other man’s features, and Hector's face doesn’t appear to hide any false truths. He supposes that much is fair, but that has never made Hector less deceptive. Isaac had been a fool once, blind to what had transpired in front of his very eyes. _What is he not telling?_

What if this is merely an effort to stall the inevitable? What if this is a trick to catch him off guard? Should Isaac come close enough for Hector to reach, would the other man claim his weapon? Would he use it to cut a long, long line along the length of Isaac's belly until his insides color the dirt beneath their feet?

"You don’t believe me" Isaac blinks at the words, _an obvious statement._ "I don’t blame you for it, but I wished to go with more dignity than,” Hector gestures vaguely, _“this._ I hoped you would understand.” His eyes drift towards the ring on his hand, regarding it with silent determination. "I was wrong." 

Hector reaches for it.

He makes a strangled noise, and Hector’s spine arches so far Isaac thinks it might _snap._ He trashes against the dirt, his fingers leaving grooves in their wake, raw and sticky where they claw at the floor. 

Countless times, did Isaac imagine what the moment of his revenge would feel like. He imagined to feel at peace, relieved, a sense of closure for having evened out the score, but now… Isaac feels _sick._

Hector’s eyes pin him from their position near Isaac’s boots, tear stricken and anguished. Wet tracks pour down his cheeks, over his throat, bleeding into the red that pools there, salt melting with iron.

Isaac feels the rumble of collapsing stone before he hears it. He looks up, caught by sprinkling of dust atop his head. It’s just in time to see the roof cave in on both of them. 

Isaac scrambles against the dirt. He throws himself in Hector’s direction, his shoulder colliding with the other man's ribs as he barrels them out of harm’s way, dodging the impact by a hair's breadth. A curtain of dust fills the room, making it difficult for them to see. Thick pieces of white stone crumble around them as the ceiling continues to come down in chunks. Dust fills his mouth, clogs his throat until he is fighting for breath. 

There are times when Isaac would consider his actions, when he would go over the consequences before deciding on an appropriate course to take. This is not one of them. 

He rolls on top of Hector, straddles him so that the other man is unable to move. His free hand pins Hector's wrist, keeping him in a white knuckle grip. Hector surges for Isaac’s cloak, his fingers clawing at the fabric with something panicked and flighty. Isaac ignores it. He pulls out his dagger.

There's a wet crunch when steel meets bone, followed by a twist of his elbow to severe the digit clean off. Isaac taps the bloodied appendage with the flat of his blade. He watches the slave ring disperse, leaving nothing but an amputated finger as if it had never been there. 

Isaac grits his teeth. He grunts as he pulls the other man by his shirt, fingers digging into the fabric none too carefully. Hector cries out, his injuries jostling painfully as he is suddenly hauled to his feet. Extending his will, Isaac calls upon his mount. _They need to get out of here, or neither of them is going to make it out alive._ He loops an arm around Hector’s waist to keep him upright, their bodies lurching forward as they blindly stumble towards the exit. 

The sound of galloping hooves soon reaches Isaac’s ears, the purplish shape of a horse appearing into view beyond the entryway. The creature slows down to a trot as it enters the vicinity, its breath visible among the cold air as it stops in front of its master. Isaac reaches for its wiry mane.

“To the portal. _Now.”_

...

...

_There's no revenge to be had in killing a man who welcomes death._

Isaac knows that much, and it might be the only thing he's currently still certain of.

His mount calmly traverses the distance as they enter the courtyard, the remnants of Carmilla’s palace shrinking behind them. The clouds have dispersed long enough for the sun to break through, its light painting the mountains in a frigid, blinding gold, announcing the approach of night. 

Hector drifts in and out of consciousness where he’s saddled in front of Isaac, bracketed between his arms where they grip at the creature’s mane. His head lolls against Isaac’s shoulder, swaying under the gentle clomping of hooves beneath them. His body stains the white of Isaac's cloak a muddled red where they touch, his breathing weak and damp in Isaac’s neck. Isaac tries not to look at his former associate, his eyes purposely fixed on the transmission portal nearing into view.

It had been as if looking into a mirror. _Had he not once been chained to a cruel man, reduced to a thing without a will?_

A clammy unease settles under his skin when a realization strikes him. For a long time, Isaac knew precisely what he wanted. Now he feels lost to what it is he should do. Isaac is not above acknowledging when he's in over his head. He would need shelter, a place to rest, and ample time to decide upon the other man’s fate. He recalls his recent discovery of a one-person village, home to an ally in the mountains near Genoa. 

The thought follows him into the portal, the chill of Styria a fading memory at their backs, forgotten and no longer relevant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ecastle_vania gifted me this special moodboard, based on the events of ch1 and I love it! The symbolism and placement of the images is so evocative and terribly on point. Thank you! 


	2. Somnium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big, steaming, pile of thank you to peachBitch1 for the beta, and to BlindWolfGrasshopper and Despommes for the occasional help!!!
> 
> Disclaimer: strong depictions of past rape/non-con.

There’s a hand at his head, large and brutish, fingers digging into his scalp cruelly. Isaac struggles to breathe against it, his face smothered into coarse, dirtied sheets, his cheek turning wet where drool pools beneath it.

His body feels hot. It is always too  _ hot.  _ Sweat trickles down his back, leaving clear tracks where sandy-white dust clings to him. Isaac shivers, his overheated skin becoming ticklish to the sensation. He seems to be always covered in dust these days. When was the last time they’d let him bathe, Isaac doesn’t know. 

Another hand joins its twin, wrenching his arms further behind his back.  _ Isaac shouts. _ They don’t hear him, they never do. He fears his shoulders have actually ripped from their sockets this time. 

Breath at his nape. A male voice reaching him, low and grating at his ear. The smell of wine sour in the air.

“Go on. Be loud about it.” A dark chuckle. The words punctuated by a thick tongue against his neck, making his skin crawl. “Nobody cares, no one will come for you.”

Isaac licks his lips, tasting salt, a retort ready behind his teeth. He turns in his captor’s hold, twisting to glare at the much larger figure behind him. He does not reach their eyes. 

The firm clap of a backhand rings between his ears. His knees buckle, the room turning on its side. His face once again hits damp sheets, fingers curling around his wrists, bracing themselves. 

A crude dribble of spit hits him just below his spine. 

Isaac  _ screams. _

...

... 

Isaac wakes up gasping, a sharp and pained noise like a man close to drowning, coming up for air. A peculiar ache lingers in his lower back, between his legs, the sensation of greedy hands roaming over him like an itch he’s unable to scratch. The urge to claw his own skin off overwhelms him so suddenly that he nearly considers to do it. 

A few of his joints pop in protest when he moves to roll onto his back. His arm shifts to rest over his brow, noting how the skin is cold to the touch and slick with sweat. 

_ He hasn’t dreamt like this in years. _

Bit by bit, it all starts to come back to him, settling like dust in the aftermath of a storm. He recalls the battle in Styria, the ghost of a man he had never expected to find there. A pitiful thing who’d rather choose death over a lifetime of  _ slavery.  _ He remembers arriving at Miranda’s village in the dead of night, the remainder of his horde in tow, scouring the layout for the least dilapidated building he could find. It was only yesterday, and yet it feels like  _ weeks.  _

The quiet sound of Hector’s breathing reaches him then, soft and quivering in the dusty vicinity of their shelter. The other man had been in poor shape when they got here. Isaac still can’t tell if his condition will improve by any means.  _ He might not make it. _

His chest rises in a final effort to gather his strength. Isaac groans as he hauls himself from his bedroll, the floor swaying minutely as he wavers to his feet.

The house he had chosen is not special by any standards. A thatched roof that appears to be intact for the most part, free of holes for as far as he could tell. The walls are covered in clay, reinforced by a lumber skeleton. The windows close with wooden shutters instead of glass—some in need of repair—and a simple, stone lined fireplace for cooking. It was better than a few of the places he had occupied in his brief life, yet far less luxurious than some.

At least this house came with a bed, and a few other sparse pieces of furniture. For all of the conflict that simmered between them, it was still below him to let a dying man sleep on the floor, in favor of claiming the one bed they had for himself. It had been a logical choice to make.

Isaac dares himself a glance in the other forgemaster’s direction, peeking from the corner of his eye. The musty blanket he had found does little to conceal the weakened state of Hector's body. It clings to him, highlighting the areas where bone has become more prominent.

Isaac crosses the distance between them, his bare feet all but soundless as they move across the packed dirt. He gingerly peels the blanket back a bit, his touch light as to not disturb, and examines Hector with a tepid sense of clinical detachment. 

It still doesn’t sit right with Isaac, that he had to partially undress an unconscious man, but most of Hector’s afflictions were centered around his top half, and the sodden tunic that covered them was long beyond salvaging.

He is content to find that none of Hector’s injuries had bled through their bandaging overnight. It had been tasking, to locate and apply all of the means required to treat them. The prospect of having to repeat the process all over so soon, is not something Isaac looks forward to. 

Most of the other man’s wounds were superficial, but some required stitches: a sorely missed ring finger, and a lower arm mangled by hell hounds, being a few of the more obvious ones. His fingertips hover over some of the older ones he’d come across. There’s a fading scar where Hector’s bottom lip was split, a previously fractured eye socket, and a gnarly set of claw marks over his chest; all of them poorly healed, as if they were left to mend on their own. His jaw tightens as he imagines how they got there, and who might have dealt them.

More concerning, is the amount of blood the other forgemaster had lost, and the slight raise in temperature Isaac had detected earlier. He leans in to rest the back of his hand against Hector’s forehead, hoping to determine it had dropped somewhat. What he discovers is quite the opposite, the faintest hint of a sickly flush now dusting his cheeks.

Isaac bends down, reaching to wring a cloth of its excess moisture in a bowl of fresh water, its coolness an alarming contrast to the glowing heat below Hector’s skin, once he dabs it to his face. 

“What happened in Styria?” The words escape him before he can think better of it, his brow creasing into a contemplative line. 

Over half a year had passed between them since Brăila, yet he still knows next to nothing about Hector. 

While serving under Dracula’s reign, Isaac preferred to keep to himself. If it did not benefit their mutual goal, he saw no need to interact with the other human in the court. He had done what he felt to be necessary. Isaac does not regret it, yet it all tastes strangely bitter on his tongue.

It is then when his stomach reminds him of what his body needs. His palm hovers below his sternum as he fails to recall the last time he had eaten anything substantial, prior to the siege on Carmilla’s palace. 

“Perhaps another day. Too much has been left unspoken, and I have questions to ask.”

The threadbare cloth finds its way back to the bottom of the bowl. Isaac spares the other man a final glance, before making his way to a slightly more discreet corner of the room. There he is greeted by the spartan washing station he had managed to set up, the tiny, wooden stool and bucket of icy water a far cry from the roman style facilities in Dracula’s castle. 

Though Isaac strived to live humbly, to not let the splendor of his noble surroundings cloud his judgement, there were some luxuries even he was not resistant to. He still vividly remembers the rows of translucent bottles lining the shelves, the fragrant steam that perfumed the air, and the heated marble that warmed his feet. A sliver of that comfort welcomes him when he opens his satchel of bathing supplies, the scent of myrtle and lime both heady and bright to his senses. 

As to be expected, castile soap had been difficult to find during his travels, but Isaac would rather pay twice the coin it had cost him, than having to resort to its less than savory tallow alternatives. He turns around, giving Hector his back while he strips, knowing all too well that the sleeping man in the room won’t be able to see him regardless. 

After he has been thoroughly lathered and rinsed, his fingernails both trimmed and cleaned, his clothes feel that much dirtier for it when he pulls them back on. It makes him shudder. 

Another minute or so, and the sun starts to crest over the mountain range, its light pouring through the cracks in the windows, dotting the space in a pale glow. A dense fog rises outside of their home, its chill heading straight to Isaac’s limbs. 

Isaac wrings his hands together, the door catching slightly as it opens, causing him to put more force behind it. Outside of their patio lies a melting pot of muted grey buildings, splattered in fiery peach and red, the sun hovering like a veiled half orb over the horizon. It would have been striking, hadn’t it been for the bleak and desolate state of it.

He hesitates for a moment, questioning his own judgement for leaving Hector out of his sight, knowing the other forgemaster to be foolhardy and far from trustworthy. The gnawing hunger at his core eventually tips him over. Isaac shuts the door behind him.

The sweltering heat of high summer hasn't quite reached the mountains yet. Judging by the early morning cold that, even now, attempts to leech into his boots, Isaac doubts it ever will. It takes him a while to navigate his way, but sooner or later he does manage to locate an abandoned inn. His findings are less bountiful than what he'd hoped for: a handful of dry ingredients and a small sack of salt, among the few supplies worth salvaging. 

While exploring the surrounding thicket, Isaac spots a couple of suitable areas to set out traps. He would have to come back later; fresh meat would be difficult to come by otherwise. His night creatures are more than capable of hunting and tracking, but ultimately lack the finesse to fetch  _ edible  _ game. The memory it provokes still makes him grimace.

With no one to tend after it, most of the cultivated plant life in the area had declined in numbers. The modest cluster of plum trees he comes across is like rainfall after a drought. Isaac eats his fill until his fingers are sticky with it. He pockets just a few of them.

"Good morning, pretty forgemaster." Isaac expected to cross paths with her at some point. It still nearly makes him jump, the click of her heeled boots hardly noticeable among the tall grass.

"I have yet to decide whether that should flatter or disturb me," he replies coolly, stretching to reach for another plum. He polishes the fruit with more fanfare than needed, pretending it's the most fascinating object for him to currently lay eyes on.

"Don't be crass. Would you deny an old woman her little pleasures?"

"Would you like an  _ honest  _ answer to that?" He finally turns to face her then, his sly expression mirroring her own, a kindred moment shared between them. "It is good to see you."

“The feeling's mutual.” Miranda folds her arms over her grey robes. “I did not expect your return so soon. I assume things went well in Styria, perhaps even better than you had hoped they would.” 

“Their monarchy has been overthrown, if that is what you mean to ask,” Isaac prickles, eyes narrowing. 

“Oh, there are  _ many  _ things I mean to ask, but there's a time and place for everything.” 

The tight lipped smile she offers fails to be reassuring. At the lack of an immediate response, Miranda continues to speak.

“I cannot help but notice how you appear to be scrounging for scraps out here.” She gestures to the surrounding foliage. “I don’t recall the last time I had guests, let alone a fellow practitioner, and my pantry is full.”

“You are inviting me to join you?”

“I’m not telling you to leave, am I?”

The house Miranda leads him to is, surprisingly, not the one where they initially met. It’s not something Isaac had considered before, but it makes sense if one has an entire settlement to themself. 

Though not immune to the apparent decay of this place, the home nearing into view had clearly once belonged among the more expensive ones to build. Its plaster coating has crumbled in most areas, revealing the stone walls underneath. The windows are intact, and made of glass, housed in a delicate lettuce frame, its roof covered in slate panels.

As they approach, it becomes clear to Isaac that his compliance had been largely expected from the start, the presence of an additional chair on her patio, in spite of the woman’s acclaimed solitude being a tell tale sign of it. Miranda directs him to retrieve an old crate for a makeshift table when she disappears inside, gesturing vaguely to the nearby greenery. A few brown chickens scurry into the underbrush when he finds it. 

“How did you know I was here?” Isaac inquires.

“Your night creatures are not all that difficult to spot.” Miranda shrugs, depositing a bowl of pickled eggs and a platter of bread with varied toppings. “If you intended for them to be discreet, then they're doing a rotten job at it.”

Isaac’s brow furrows at that. “I had ordered for them to not interfere, to guard the surrounding area, but to remain unseen otherwise.” He takes a slice of bread, forgoing the dry aged meat served alongside it.

“Sounds like you’re either trying to keep something from entering or from leaving.” Miranda cocks a brow at him, her gaze knowing. “Which one is it?”

His shoulders stiffen at the careless slip. For a heavy beat Isaac says nothing. 

“I have yet to make that decision.” 

As if reading the tension in the air, Miranda decides to leave it at that. While they work through their simple meal, Isaac learns that Miranda had been married once, the death of her late husband proceeding the magician’s assault on her village. 

“When I arrived here, I had no intentions to stay, not before we met.” Miranda leans over the armrest, twisting at the waist to face him. “I was  _ accustomed  _ to moving around a lot. In some places it took years, in other towns as little as a few months, but eventually they always found out  _ what  _ I was.” 

“You forged in exchange for coin?” 

“It brought food to the table, and I was good at it. Perhaps too good,” she laughs dryly, her expression turning wistful. “As it turns out, the winds of change have a tendency to sweep us in unexpected directions, young forgemaster.”

Isaac nods, remembering how the events in Styria hardly planned out like he had hoped they would. “Did your husband ever come to accept your nature?”

“I never outright told him, but I believe in his own way he always knew. I wanted to, but some patterns are too ingrained to break, no matter how we wish for it to be different.” Isaac can guess to what Miranda means by that, having lived through many trials of his own.

“How did you manage after his passing?”

Miranda falls silent for a moment, she smiles as if just remembering something. “Are you familiar with the art of cartomancy, Sir Forgemaster?”

“You believe such things to be true?” Isaac barks, his eyes widening in disbelief.

_ “God no,”  _ Miranda blurts out laughing, as if the notion alone were absurd. “However, there are plenty of people that do, and they’re willing to pay for it.”

“And you were not put in danger by this? The church never came for you?” 

“I was needed. People came to me when they had nowhere left to turn. If anyone wanted to rat me out in this churchless town, then they had nothing on me, except for a pack of old playing cards.” Miranda helps herself to a pickled egg, then pointedly makes to lock eyes with him. “If I was able to ease their burdens, then no one cared how I did it.”

“You found this fulfilling, to  _ help  _ others?”  _ Why grant favors to those who are undeserving of it,  _ is what he means to say, but Isaac holds his tongue.

“I suppose I did...” she trails off. “Were they the same people who would have me lynched if given the chance? Oh, absolutely! But where would that have gotten me in the end?” Miranda reaches for him, her pointed nails grazing lightly over his arm. “I could’ve held onto my resentment, but it’s not something you can live off, Isaac. It poisons the mind, and at the end of the day I only had myself to blame for feeling so  _ sick.” _

Isaac is unsure how much more he  _ wants  _ to hear. The events of the last few days left him with little energy to contemplate such difficult matters. He decides to say nothing at all, eyes peering into the distance.

Miranda then asks him why he chose to follow this path, what drove him to pursue the arcane arts. He conveniently leaves out the more personal details, but decides that he’s still in a sharing mood. 

“I traveled a lot when I was younger, mostly northern-Africa, the middle-east, some parts of India, first as a pilgrim and later as a scholar.” Miranda nods, her interest piqued. “It was my responsibility to add to the academy’s collective libraries. I was hungry for knowledge, and believed this to be the key to unravel life’s mysteries, a higher purpose.”

“Did you find the answers you were looking for on your expeditions?”

“Partially." His expression sours at his next admission. "I learned things were rarely as simple as they seem. The more knowledge I attained, the more I was left with questions I did not have answers to. It was like only ever hearing one version of a story.”

“I take it this is when you decided to expand. To divert from the traditional path, and pave your own roads.”

“Indeed,” he nods. “I understood, once I ventured into the occult, the  _ whole  _ truth had been wilfully kept from me. To no one’s surprise, it tore a rift between my goals and my original teachings to live  _ peacefully.”  _ Isaac huffs a bitter, little laugh, fingers rubbing at his temple. “The sages were not pleased when I set out a path of my own.”

“How many were opposed when you made that choice?” Miranda leans in expectantly.

Isaac looks Miranda dead in the eye then, his lips curving into a terrible smile, flashing the broad, white line of his teeth. When he speaks, his words are deliberately slow and annunciated.  _ “All of them.” _

A myriad of expressions dart across Miranda’s face at his unspoken confession. Her jaw slacks just a tiny bit as the initial shock of it sets in. A devious smirk splits her wrinkled features, eyes squeezed shut as her head tilts back, laughter building to a full cackle. It’s contagious, more than Isaac thought possible when he joins in, chuckling darkly under his breath.

It is past midday when Isaac remembers he’s still needed elsewhere. Miranda actively refuses to let him leave without at least a week’s worth of provisions from her pantry. Her hands fold over his own when she delivers him the basket.

“I meant what I said, for ours is already a hard lot.” Her fingers squeeze around his for good measure. “Keep your allies close when you find them. I trust you’ll know where I live, should you need anything.”

Isaac offers Miranda a reassuring smile and nods. He waves her goodbye, before vanishing out of sight.

His footsteps echo among the empty streets as he makes his way back to their shared dwelling. Isaac contemplates Miranda’s words and the tentative comfort they had brought, feeling like a fraction of a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. He sighs wearily, fingers reaching to pinch between his eyes.

“I have  _ truly  _ been on my own for too long,” he mutters to himself. “It must be the curse to our human condition, to possess a heart so easily swayed.” His palm falls to his breastbone, feeling for the steady pulse of it underneath. “I shall never learn.”

Upon entering, their humble abode appears exactly as Isaac had left it. He circles the perimeter of it once, assuring what few possessions he’d acquired haven’t moved from their spot. Hector looks... considerably worse to how he did this morning. 

The other forgemaster shifts around fitfully where he lies. It seems that even under the curtain of sleep, his body is in constant discomfort. His skin looks waxy with the oil and sweat that has gathered there, causing strands of ashen hair to stick to his face. Intermittent shivers ripple through him, now that the fever has fully taken hold, his brow drawn low over his eyes.

Isaac nearly pities him. He looks at Hector for a long while, and wonders to himself, what in the name of  _ all nine hells  _ he’s supposed to do... 

* * *

The silk bedding feels cool beneath his bare skin. His head lies pillowed upon a pair of soft, feminine thighs. Pale, dainty hands gently caress his face, clawed fingertips grazing lightly over his scalp.

"Your hair is such a unique color,” Lenore compliments him. “Has anyone told you before?" 

Hector does not answer. 

"Of course not." She idly twirls a strand of it between her fingers. "I don’t think you had someone until now, who  _ cared  _ enough to mention it, not like I do,” she laughs. He cannot see her features, but Hector feels her mocking smile all the same.

Her hands shift to glide across his cheek, along his jaw, over the hammering pulse at his throat. A sharp nail digs into the skin there. Hector fights not to squirm against it, fearing it might puncture the artery if he struggles too much. His breath stutters on its way out, hands fisting into the sheets. 

"Don't worry," Lenore chuckles condescendingly. "No one here means to harm you, Hector.” Cold lips touch his forehead. A fake apology. “You're more important to us now than you’ve ever been." Hector doesn't want to feel  _ important. _

Her nails playfully drag over his pectorals, leaving pink, raised lines in their wake. Lenore makes a pleased noise at the sight of them, and it  _ sickens  _ him to hear it. 

_ It feels like a brand mark.  _

Her thumb then smooths over his nipple, pinching until it's tender and flushed. Heat fills his cheeks, staining them a deep, shameful hue.

"Lenore, stop," he pleads to her, cautious not to raise his voice. "I don't want this." Tears prick at the corners of his eyes. 

"You sweet, foolish boy." Lenore coos to him. "There's no reason for you to cry." Her touch migrates over his abdomen, down to a weak, traitorous part of him which is starting to stir. "I'm here now, and I will give you what you always needed."

The velvet of her dress rustles as she looms over him, her shadow like a crushing weight, depriving his lungs of air.  _ Please don’t,  _ he wants to beg, but there’s no sound. Her fingers reach for him, curling around hardening flesh.

_ He can’t breathe... _

... 

... 

Hector jolts into wakefulness, gripped by the sensation of falling. Blearily, he rolls onto his side with a pained grunt, reaching to rub at his brow. He regrets the action immediately, as it does little to soothe the headache, brooding behind his eyes. Vision blurry with long overdue sleep, Hector absently stares into the room.

It is dark, too dark for him to see. Hector thinks he can hear  _ something _ move at the other end of the room, but he cannot tell for sure. He swallows thickly, tongue working against the dryness in his mouth.

“There is water, should you have a need for it,” a calm voice reaches out to him, deep, smooth, and distantly familiar. A backwater part of his mind supplies him that he should know this person, but the memory escapes him as easily as if he were trying to trap smoke with his bare hands. His tongue darts out to wet dry and chapped lips. Hector nods.

“Do you need help sitting up?” Heat radiates onto his arm, like a hand hovering nearby just short from touching. 

“Nnno,” He slurs, shaking his head. 

He pushes himself onto one elbow, not quite upright, but enough to accept the cup being handed to him.

“Drink slowly, or you will make yourself sick.”

Hector doesn’t listen. He drains the water in great, greedy gulps, like a compulsion that kicks in as soon as it hits his throat. The empty cup slips from his grasp as he slumps back down, quietly struggling to regain his breath. It drops to the floor with a dull thud.

"Do you need anything else?"

Hector shakes his head. "M'tired," he mumbles, not bothering to smooth out the words.

"Sleep then. I will be here, when you wake."

It's a lot more reassuring than it should be. Hector is far beyond the point of caring. The last thing he remembers, before sleep takes him, is the sensation of a blanket covering him, and a cool, damp cloth wiping soothingly across his face.

...

...

The earth beneath his feet is slippery, thin and muddy with stagnant water. The smell of rot cloys thickly to his tongue, the air stringy like syrup in his lungs. Hector does not know how long he’s been wandering, and little does it matter.

There is something oppressive that weighs on his chest, like a shadow gaining on him, waiting, prowling, ready to snap at his heels should he lower his guard. It  _ will  _ catch him if he stops moving. 

_ It would be easy, so easy, to let it take him.  _

The dense thicket lining the lower levels of the forest snags on his clothing and pulls on his hair, a persistent fog making it difficult to see. Branches atop the canopy hover over him like elongated talons, and Hector knows:  _ he’s not welcome here. _

His footing falters and Hector's breeches catch on a particularly mean bramble, tearing at the fabric, leaving a serrated, red line across his thigh. The hushed  _ “Fuck.”  _ that follows, sounds much too loud to his own ears. It is echoes among the eerie quiet. Hector twists at the hip to inspect the damage, fingers pressing tenderly at the inflicted area. 

There is a clearing in front of him, extending into a wide path. Hector blinks at the sight of it. He doesn’t remember it being here just a moment ago. 

A flash of tan and black fur brushes past him. Familiar, glowing red eyes briefly meet his own, lukewarm and aloof. There's a faint crackle of arcane energy  _ humming  _ along his skin. The jackal slows to a trod mere meters ahead. Hector follows it.

_ He should know better.  _ He should know better than to hopelessly trail behind a wild animal, praying it would lead him to safety. Like some, sad, lost puppy, like the dog Carmilla likened him to be,  _ gullible... little... pet.  _

Does he, in fact, have a choice... 

_ Certainly not. _

His feet are starting to drag, straining as they sink further and further below waterlogged soil.  _ He’s failing to keep up.  _ Hector calls out, something frightful and desperate hooks its way past his teeth. His fingers stretch towards the distance increasing between them. The jackal does not respond, seemingly unconcerned with his predicament, its outline fading into the milky haze.

Mud clings to his soles like a sticky dough, dragging him under, and his heart, his heart keeps beating, beating, and  _ beating  _ in his skull. 

_ No, no, no,  _ his lips form around the words. Hector does not hear his own voice, consumed as it is by this terrible, thumping rhythm. Dirt fills his mouth. It's going to swallow him whole,  _ it's going to swallow him whole and he will die here. _

...

...

Dim candlelight greets him when Hector wakes, faintly illuminating the room. He winces. It is but a single flame, yet it still hurts his eyes. 

A burning sensation catches up to him. His gaze flits towards his arms, finding scratch marks there, pink and red stains smeared across the sheets. Blood coats the underside of his nails. It is a sight that should unsettle him, but it’s not the first time this had happened in his sleep. He doubts it will be the last.

There is a bowl of warm food by his bedside. A meager peace offering, rich with cooked vegetables and meat. It nearly makes him gag. Hector petulantly shoves it aside, finding the smell of it enough to turn his stomach. 

The action seems to have stirred something near the hearth. There, swaddled in the fire’s dying, orange glow, sits  _ Isaac.  _ The other forgemaster’s demeanor is as infuriatingly calm as Hector remembers it to be, cool and unflinching, as he silently pours over his scriptures.

It’s a scenario he has grown all too familiar with and Hector is  _ sick  _ of it. 

He is  _ tired.  _ He’s so, so tired of being passed around, as if he were a commodity. Hector shifts into an upright position, or as much as he can manage in his current state. Indignation burns hotly in his throat, when he opens his mouth to speak.

_ “What do you want with me.”  _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, please, please leave me feedback if you can spare it. It would mean the world to me, and keeps me motivated!
> 
> Somnium: meaning "to dream" in Latin.


	3. Catharsis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A juicy and succulent thank you to peachBitch1, for being my number one fan and loyal beta!!!

_“_ _What do you want with me.”_

Hector prays Isaac does not notice the slight waver in his voice, or the way he strains to keep himself upright. Deep down, however, he knows this to be wishful thinking. 

The look Isaac gives him is something Hector cannot quite read: impassive, perhaps vaguely bored. Isaac makes a show to dust himself off as he stands to his feet, fingers smoothing over the wrinkles in his clothes. The weak, dusty light in the room does little to disperse the commanding presence he’s always worn like second nature. 

“I fail to see how that is currently relevant,” Isaac bristles.

 _“Please,”_ he scoffs. “Ever since Carmilla claimed herself a forgemaster, every vampire monarch must be looking for one.” Hector shifts in his thin blanket to face the other man, wincing. “What are they claiming to offer you? Land? Coin? A chance to rule at their side? Is that it?”

“Hector. I _do not_ know what you are talking about.” Isaac is speaking slowly now, as if Hector were dim and witless, like an infant.

“I’m not _blind,_ Isaac.” He sweeps his uninjured arm through the space between them. “Why else would you be keeping me alive. It’s not like you hesitated to kill Godbrand either.”

Isaac quirks a brow at that, looking genuinely bewildered. “You knew of this?”

“He was living on borrowed time; it wasn’t that hard to tell. None of the other generals would have bothered to take him out." Hector leans against the wall adjoining his bed. His tone softens then, as if reminiscing. “Honestly, I didn’t exactly miss him,” he laughs bitterly. 

Isaac does not respond. 

Neither forgemaster seems willing to disturb the brittle silence that has settled between them, like two hounds locked in a stare down, waiting for the other to pounce. There were many lonesome days as a child, when Hector had begged, prayed even, to meet someone just like him. Someone who might know what it's like, a reprieve from the _real_ monsters awaiting him at home. How ironic, he thinks, fate should decide to grant him that wish, after all.

Measured footsteps break through the quiet, traversing the distance between them. Hector doesn't hear it.

“You should let me look at that.” Long, dark skinned fingers grip at his elbow, a thumb running lightly over one of the self-inflicted marks there. “It could fester, if left untreated.”

Hector flinches. He snatches Isaac by the wrist, body lurching forward until he’s fully crowding into the other man’s space. His voice is low and dangerous when he speaks.

 _“Don’t... touch... me,”_ he snarls, seething with barely restrained contempt.

The brief look of shock, darting across Isaac’s features before he can smooth it away, is _thrilling._ The gratification it earns him is, nevertheless, shortly lived.

_This was a horrible idea._

Hector stumbles out of his rickety bed and onto the floor, heaving on all fours. He hears the scrape of metal across dirt as Isaac drags a chamber pot underneath him. It blurs in front of his eyes. His fingers curl around the rim where he slumps, gagging with every convulsion that rolls up his spine. Hector is unsure how long he stays there, basting in the fumes of his own sick. He groans weakly, face resting over his arms as he gasps for air.

All this time, Hector hadn’t been quite lucid enough to assess his situation. The ailment that befell him, had been something hardly perceptible, hovering around the perimeters of his mind. Now, free from the haze of fatigue, it's starting to catch up to him.

His left fist keeps mechanically clenching and unclenching, as if he still expects the subtle pull of tendons and ligaments where there is now none. A thick webbing of mucous sits heavy in his throat, no matter how he attempts to swallow it down. His muscles ache where they move beneath tender skin. _It itches,_ like an ant colony roaming over his flesh. 

Hector is well aware these effects were to find him, now that the opiates have left his blood. He’s still conflicted whether he should count it a blessing or a curse.

Isaac had left him a clean rag at some point, accompanied by a cup of fresh water. Hector can hear him purposely rummage around the room, as if the other man means to respect what is left of his scant dignity: a wordless offer to gather himself without an audience. 

"You should not have moved so soon," Isaac comments.

Hector cranes his neck to look at the other forgemaster, blearily, imagining he must appear like a mess, sullied in his own fluids. He takes the rag. It is damp and cool as he runs it along his grimy skin. He spits some of the water into the pot, rinsing his mouth of the taste. Hector watches Isaac as he works, following his methodical movements as steel cuts through cloth, dividing it into strips. Seemingly unperturbed by Hector’s silence, the other man continues his train of thought.

“Your injuries need further treatment. They require fresh bindings, and salted water for cleaning.” Isaac then turns to look over his shoulder, holding Hector's gaze steadily. “I could leave the rest to you, if that is what you wish.”

“Yes,” he coughs. The air grates against his vocal cords. 

It’s like what little strength he had in him, left alongside with his stomach contents. He’s not entirely sure what he just agreed to. 

His eyelids are starting to grow heavy, and Hector is suddenly very, very tired. The bed frame creaks under his weight, as he settles beneath his blanket. Hector refrains from laying himself down, preferring a cross legged position to keep Isaac within his line of sight, the clay wall an immovable force at his back.

“It might be a good time for you to eat something.” The other man reaches into the fold of his pocket, and presents Hector a handful of ripe plums. 

_He’s not wrong,_ Hector knows this. His recent blunder did leave him feeling empty in ways he can't quite describe. It’s possibly the closest to an appetite he’s had since _God knows when._ Hector stares at the purple fruits laid out on his mattress, then directs his gaze to Isaac. “And what do you expect from me, in return for this _kindness?”_

Isaac looks at him for a tense beat, as if he's searching Hector's face for answers, followed by a minute shake of his head. “I expect you to eat,” he responds calmly. Then, slightly more insistent. _"Eat."_

...

...

Hector does not remember how he got here. This, he contemplates, while picking away at his food. He remembers being ambushed by night creatures, their eyes red and glaring in the feeble light of his forge. He remembers dust and smoke, _pain,_ then nothing.

Time has been a muddled, blurry thing since then, like colored patches of wax, blending, melting until no two shades can be distinguished from the other. He takes another bite. It is sweet and replenishing as it gives way beneath his teeth. 

Hector scans the room, chewing idly. The interior is not that far removed from his home in Rhodes. Looking back, it would have been a stretch to call it a _house._ The inside still reeked of straw and manure when he first came across it. Hector is fairly certain it had served as a barn at some point. Despite being in obvious disrepair, this building is still more welcoming than the conditions he lived under for all those years.

Some boards are missing or torn in the window shutters, providing a glimpse into the outside world. There is no moon or stars to be seen among the black. It fills him with a peculiar ache.

“How long have I been asleep?”

The monotone rhythm of Isaac’s blade stills at the question. Hector sees the other man’s back tense up, as if caught off guard, his head tilting slightly. “No more than two days.”

It leaves him with more questions than he feels comfortable asking. Are they still in Styria? What became of Lenore and her sisters? Did they survive the battle? Are they hunting for him?

“You need not worry about the Styrian court.” Isaac tells him, as if sensing the maelstrom currently whirling in his head. The other man’s gaze falls to his arcane focus, angling it this and that way in his grip. It glimmers weakly in the fire light. “They have been _taken care of._ This I assure you.”

Hector wants to believe him.

At a loss for words, he thoughtlessly stares at his hands, as if seeking refuge in the crisscrossing of cloth there. He supposes he should feel fortunate his modesty had been left intact. It does little to hush that part of him which is still tender, like a fresh burn mark stretched painfully across the skin.

“I will need to boil these.” Hector watches as Isaac gathers them all in a bunch. “They are yours to proclaim, once cool and dry.”

He nods, meeting the other man’s gaze. The sheer lack of gratitude is deliberate. Isaac makes no mention of it.

The other forgemaster reaches for a stack of dry branches, feeds them into the flames one after the other. A large, ceramic pot is placed over the hearth, filled nearly to the brimming point with clear water. It bubbles and spits, as steam starts to rise.

...

...

Hector knows he did not sleep, at least not fully. The ambience of the room came in fractured while he drifted. Distantly, he still remembers pieces of it. Judging by the darkness outside their windows, he thinks it must not have been long. 

His eyes search the vicinity for the other forgemaster, blinking to clear the haze from his sight. Isaac greets him with a curt nod from where he’s huddled by the fireplace, but makes no effort to acknowledge him otherwise, favoring to direct his focus on the task at hand. The other man pulls a small whetstone from his pocket, its intended purpose obvious. 

His feelings towards the gifts bestowed upon him at birth, have always been complicated at best. More often than not, Hector thought himself better off without them. Now, watching the dedicated movements of Isaac’s hands as the other forgemaster cares for his arcane tool, he feels awfully bare.

Hector tries not to linger on it. His fingers reach for the pile of bindings at his bedside, sterilized and by now completely dry. _Perhaps it had been longer than he assumed._

This is not the first time Hector had to patch himself back together. It is a ritual weirdly mechanical in nature, as he carefully unwinds each ribbon of cloth. He does not look as the last shreds around his hand unfurl. There might come a time when he feels ready to face that truth, but that is definitely not tonight. The saline solution stings as he dabs it across the afflicted areas. Hector hisses. His skin is still raw where frantic hands had clawed, deep below the bog of his own exhaustion. He ties the last few ends of clean bandaging between fingers and teeth, doing as good a job as he can manage. 

There's a persistent wariness buzzing in his veins, an anxious energy that yowls beneath his skin. It's starting to dawn on him how all of this seems terribly familiar, like a game he was forced to play before. Hector wonders how long this one will bother keeping up the pretense. _How far will they go, to take from him what they want?_ The urge to know wells in him like an overfull waterskin, threatening to burst at the seams. 

“Why are you doing this?" Hector shakes his head, mouth slacking in an incredulous gape. "I don't see what can be gained from my comfort.” 

Isaac halts his motions. He shrugs, as if it really were that simple. “You have no reason to trust me, and I have no reason to blame you for it.” 

It's a kind of response Hector expected from the other man: answering one question, while allowing three more to rise in its stead, its bite equally potent to its ability to soothe.

There's the initial transparency he had grown unaccustomed to: a crisp breath of fresh air, after the endless slew of corners he struggled to think around. He wasn’t suited for a life in court, and everyone—much to his own dismay—could tell. Though it is in some part appreciated, Hector doesn’t know what to make of it.

It is no secret that his former colleague possessed a keen and observing mind. In a way, they worked like two halves of a whole, complementary yet different. Hector wonders how much Isaac has seen in Styria, how much he must _know,_ to make such a claim. The shame that throttles him sits heavy below his vocal cords, like an iron fist squeezing around his trachea. It turns out, nothing is ever that _simple._

It doesn’t immediately catch up to him, like how sound is muffled when it travels through water. A low, disembodied hum. A grey noise growing louder, and louder, and _louder._

Hector looks up from his bed, eyes drifting towards the window. “It rains here,” he murmurs.

Isaac blinks at his oddly phrased statement, giving him a puzzled look. Hector clumsily shifts towards the edge, legs swinging over the side of the mattress. Isaac calls to him as he steadies himself on his feet. Hector hardly hears it. 

His nails catch against the clay material of the wall, a flat palm seeking stability. The blanket he had draped across himself glides from his shoulders and sags to the floor, forgotten in wake of the overwhelming need to _look._

Hector does not remember half the trek from Brăila to Styria. Days bled into one another, sleep became wakefulness-wakefulness turned into sleep, its hostile climate chasing him like a spectre. He’d often wondered during those times if Hell would feel anything like this. After all, its deepest circles were frozen, like a tundra stretching on endlessly. 

The door scrapes across cobblestone pavement as it opens, its sound harsh and grating to his ears. Outside, rainfall seeps into his hair and trickles over his scalp. It pools at his bare feet, splashing in all directions as he walks. 

Without thought, Hector shuts his eyes and lets his head fall back. The rain that chills his skin, is not like the biting cold of the north he had grown so reluctantly accustomed to. Neither is it like the coastal storms on his home island he had learned to endure. No, it’s nothing like that. 

It feels in every way like reaching the eye of a hurricane, not knowing you've been battling the elements all this time or for how long. The light from within the house illuminates his back like a beacon, the vast, inky darkness ahead of him blotting all else out of excistence. Within this liminal space between here and nothingness is a strange comfort, a sense of calm he had long forgotten what it felt like. 

His vision blurs, and for a moment the world seems to tilt before his eyes. Steady hands loop under his arms, wrapping firmly around his chest, a strong core settling against his shoulder blades. Breath fans onto his temple in warm, damp puffs, Isaac muttering furiously to himself, though he cannot make out the words. Hector tries but fails to keep up, half stumbling and half dragging his feet under him. Back inside, he is plopped down with a soft “oomf” as the impact serves to kick some of the air from his lungs. The hearth glows warmly in front of him. He can’t stop shivering. _How long had he been out there?_

“Do you ever, _ever_ think before you act?” Isaac is glaring daggers at him, fingers rubbing delicately over his forehead as if he means to stave off a headache.

“Why do you care? Did you mean to lock me in this house?” He turns his head to confront Isaac. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

Hector watches Isaac intently. The thump of his own heartbeat feels heavy behind his breast bone. Something flickers across the other man’s features, a temporary crack in the veneer, too subtle and complex for him to read. When Isaac speaks, he appears significantly more composed.

“Would I allow you freedom of movement, if that were so? Would I not have barricaded the door, if that is what I had wanted?” Hector says nothing, petulantly, biting the inside of his lip. Isaac sighs, looking nothing short of exasperated. “I have no intentions to keep you captive. You could leave right now, and I will not stop you. Though I would strongly advise against it.” Isaac gestures to the bandages wrapped around Hector’s body. “I would hate to see my hard work go to waste.”

Hector lowers his head. His fingers gingerly trace the contours of it, still trembling weakly from the cold, remembering how they recently got there. He doesn’t look at Isaac, with what he’s about to ask next.

“Why didn’t you kill me? What made you decide against it?”

“It doesn’t matter why I did it. I was forced to act quickly. I made a choice." Isaac looks at him gravely, as if meaning to say: _listen closely, and listen well._ "We are all bound to the consequences of our actions, Hector. I am taking responsibility now, so it won't come back to haunt me later.”

It is startlingly reassuring, enough to cool some of the fight still roiling in his veins. So far the other forgemaster has been blunt, unsurprisingly so, but consistent and honest nonetheless. There's not an ounce of pity in Isaac's words, no feigned sympathy, no secret meaning hidden between the lines. _A simple truth._

Hector wonders, had he been more considerate of his own actions, could he have prevented any of this? Would he rather have died in Dracula’s war than choosing to side with the likes of Carmilla, if he had known beforehand? The more time he puts behind him, the more the former seems like the favorable option. The notion of what could have been lingers on his tongue, like something hollow and sour. It tastes like regret.

Quiet footsteps approach him, barely audible above the crackle of the fire. Hector looks up to lock eyes with Isaac, carrying a blanket and a cup with something warm and steaming in his arms. When he reaches to accept it, his hand purposely folds over the other man’s fist, clenched around the soft material.

“Thank you.” He’s not entirely certain what for, but he feels like he owes Isaac that much. 

Isaac’s expression is as difficult to read as ever, though he thinks some of the tension has faded from the other man’s features. “Don’t mention it.”

Hector bundles himself in tightly, and accepts the cup with hot liquid. It smells like peppermint, stronger than he would ever consider to take his tea, but he drinks it all the same. He hums softly with how it warms him from the inside out.

Storm clouds disperse into the west. The faint light of dawn paints the sky in lavender and grey, and with its arrival Hector feels that much lighter for it. He's asleep long before he can notice the other man’s absence, or the hammer Isaac carries with him upon his return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo boy, this has been a tasking one with all the tension and conflict that needed addressing. Please, please, please let me know what you think. Your feedback and support means more to me than I am capable of expressing.
> 
> Catharsis: purification or purging of the emotions.


	4. Clemency

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays everyone! Not entirely in time for Christmas, but I hope this may still end your year on a sweeter note.
> 
> A big, stunning, sexy thank you to NyamiRose for beta-reading for me. Thank you so much for being my cheerleader, and all the feedback that helped me power through it!
> 
> Disclaimer: past dub-con/gaslighting

Isaac does not revel in the suffering of others. He considers himself a man of few vices, and sadism is not one of them. As a devil forgemaster he always thought of death as a means to an end, as something merciful, for life is fleeting and too often unkind. This is not merciful.

There’s a chill permeating the air inside their makeshift home. It lingers long after the dawn has announced its arrival, giving way to a near cloudless sky. Isaac did not sleep that night. He rarely does during times like these, when his mind is not to be trusted and his dreams no longer safe to confide in. Loathe as he is to admit, _it frightens him._

Hector’s fitful stirring breaks him from his thoughts. He swipes a thumb over Hector’s brow, his skin no longer rain soaked but burning under his touch and slick with sweat. What small measure of health the other forgemaster had gained quickly diminished in wake of that little stunt. _It was a stupid thing to do._

“I don’t understand why I expected better from you,” Isaac mutters, knowing the other man won’t hear him. “Did I not warn you of your own foolishness? Did I not tell you not to act so _carelessly?_ Why did you not listen?” He doubts Hector himself would know the answers, even with all of his faculties intact.

Carefully, he peels a few damp strands from the other man’s forehead. Hector huffs a noise of discomfort, shifting to tuck his face against crumpled sheets. His fists look battered and frail where they clutch around yellowed bedding, as if he could get his own shivering to stop if he just were to grip them hard enough. 

Isaac idly wonders what the other forgemaster must be dreaming about. Judging by the deep furrow of his brow, the tense line of his mouth, it cannot be a pleasant one. Isaac does not revel in the pain of others, and looking upon this withering man, he sees no mercy.

They spend the remainder of the week much in the same way. Hector appears increasingly more lucid the more his fever abides. He doesn’t speak during those moments. Isaac wonders what brought about the change in him. He does not pretend to know the details of what happened to Hector in Styria, but he feels safe to say it must’ve left a mark.

He runs out of medical supplies roughly five days in, and though Hector’s injuries lost most of their swelling, it is by Isaac’s estimation his stitches won't come out for quite some time. Isaac is aware he’s been willingly putting it off; their rations are running low, and his upcoming visit to Miranda’s house is well overdue. 

The captain who sailed them from Tunis to Genoa had been an entirely different creature to consider. He was a man with no ulterior goals than to move from one place to another, with enough sins to his name to inspire the drive needed. It took weeks, and no small measure of persuasion, to put Isaac at ease and entrust the man in question. 

So much about the elderly forgemaster is still shrouded in uncertainty, and though there is something to be said for Miranda’s perceptive nature, her sharpness of mind, Isaac is not sure if he likes it. 

* * *

It is hard to pinpoint the last time Hector truly felt clean. He doesn't remember much of when his mother used to bathe him, assuming he must’ve been small enough to garner some of her affection. For the most part, he remembers the scoldings he’d receive when the way he looked after himself did not meet his father’s standards. As if it were something that should come naturally to a child so young, regardless of whether he was taught the proper steps or not; lessons of which some he still bore the reminders on his skin. 

There were no more scoldings after that night.

Like so many before him, Hector heard tales of the marvel that is Dracula’s castle; a place where modern engineering and magic are in complete harmony with one another. As a general, he took it upon himself to look his most presentable and often frequented the bathroom adjoining his quarters, preferring its ease of use and efficiency. Amidst war council meetings and the preparations for his master's army, he sadly found little time to indulge in Castlevania’s most lavish facilities. 

Looking back between here and Brăila, he doesn't think he’s felt clean since then.

Hector blinks against the brightness of the room. The weather had turned pleasantly mild in these past few days, agreeable enough to leave the window shutters open and allow some of the light to pour in. There’s a lingering weariness behind his eyes that he has yet to remedy, and for all that he’d spend the week bedridden, he doesn’t feel like he’s been resting. 

The other man had been as much a creature of habit as Hector assumed him to be. Each morning Isaac would leave early, and returned around noon with an assortment of fruits, berries, and small game slung across his shoulder, traipsing a scent trail of incense and damp earth across the threshold of their abode. Isaac never tells him where he wanders off to, and Hector never asks. 

However strained things currently are between them, there's a certain predictability to it all, a routine that comes easily despite the circumstances. Outside a breeze rustles the tree canopy, causing the light to dapple across his feet in dancing spots. As warm as the shifting air around him may be, the sensation is lost on his wetted skin. He shivers.

 _It won't be too long before Isaac comes back._ The other man had been gracious enough to lend him a bar of unscented soap. Considering how intensely the other forgemaster cares for his own hygiene, Hector suspects Isaac could no longer put up with his stink as much as he did. He has never seen Isaac bathe, but Hector could tell the humble washing set up in the room hasn't gone a day without use since they got here.

Hector lathers himself in soapy water, careful not to aggravate his stitches and eager to claim this moment of privacy for himself. A smattering of bruises colors the areas around his injured arm and ribs, tinged in shades of green and yellow and nearly faded. Aside from the incident shortly after Hector first awoke, Isaac has made no further attempts to touch him.

Admittedly, he has yet to grow used to this new normality. Lenore held no qualms about weaving her way into his space, knowing he could only give in eventually. Each time Isaac veered too close in his proximity, each time Hector anticipated the onslaught on his body to continue, Isaac never did, and it never came. Those times when it had been different, he still remembers vividly.

“Hector. You’re not pouting again, are you?” Hector does not respond. He is distantly aware he’s supposed to speak when spoken to, but little does he care. 

Lenore sighs quietly from her side of the bed, like a mother grown tired with her child’s willful antics. The mattress dips under her weight as she moves to where he’s seated near the edge, her presence like an icy spot at his back. 

“Look at me, Hector.” Cold fingertips cup his face, tilting his chin up. His eyes fall to her hair, still in disarray from when he was urged to tangle his hands in it. Tracing down the bridge of her nose, his gaze dips to the bow of her kiss swollen lips, to the line of her throat where elegant collarbones peak out from her silken gown. _She looks beautiful,_ and he resents her all the more for it. 

Delicately, and so terribly gently she starts to card through his hair. If she even takes note of how thin it has grown, how dry and brittle the strands must feel between her fingers, then she doesn’t bother mentioning it. The look Lenore gives him is something akin to pity. Hector would nearly believe her, if he didn’t know any better. 

“There will come a time when you’ll realize I've only ever had your best interest in mind,” she tells him. “You have a good life here, and one day you will thank me for it.” _He sincerely doubts that._ A brief pause follows, as if she expects him to say something back. Her expression sours when he doesn’t. _“Hector.”_ Lenore tugs at his hair, and he finally meets her eyes. “Do you understand?”

Hector swallows against the dryness in his mouth. “Y-yes. Yes, Lenore,” he stammers, nodding obediently, just like he knows she expects of him.

She smiles at him like a winter’s sun, the curve of her mouth warm as she leans in to press her lips to his cheek, her breath like a chilled gust at his ear. “Good boy.”

Hector rubs at his forehead, as if physically willing the memory back from whence it came. His skin looks raw and gleaming within the quiet lull of the room. A few of his stitches have come loose under his own excessive scrubbing, turning the white suds pink. It is a sight he has, quite frankly, grown accustomed to, and none of it disturbs him half as much as it should. 

Hector wipes himself down with a poor excuse for a towel. His legs are still damp when he hoists them in dirtied trousers, caked in layers of dust and old, dried blood. He tries not to consider how much of it is his own. For the lack of anything better, the blanket he'd slept under is wrapped then tied around his shoulders and chest, feeling too exposed without the constant brush of fabric against his skin otherwise. He hasn't asked Isaac for new clothes as of yet. Why, he does not know.

His gaze catches the faint glimmer of metal from the other end of the room. A few days have passed since he first noticed the hammer, resting neatly against the flagstone mantle of the hearth. Hector walks over to it, tracing his fingers across its garish design from handle to head, colors not unlike the livery of Styria. _It never felt right in his hands._

Throughout the endless months he’d spend in Carmilla’s palace, Hector could not figure why the vampiress went out of her way to take his coins, and had them embedded in a different tool for him to work with. Perhaps it served as another one of her methods to keep him complacent, another reminder that he was no longer his own. He would surely deem her cruel enough.

It seems unlikely Isaac would need him to forge night creatures. Clearly, the other forgemaster has done well in his absence, and entirely without Hector’s aid. If there’s a purpose Isaac has in mind for him, then it is yet to be revealed. Hector is certain Isaac must have caught him glancing in his direction at some point, questioning, wondering, though each time he says nothing of it. 

When they still served the same master, it was commonly known Hector outperformed his fellow general in both skill and technique. Isaac never begrudged him for it. Where Hector lacked in other areas, Isaac was there to fill in the gaps, like the gears to an intricate mechanism fitting together seamlessly. These days, however, it appears the other man’s talent would rival that of his own.

Something grips him then. It’s like seeing that one stone slightly off in color, foreign and out of place among the rest. Crouching down on his hands and knees, Hector shifts to take a closer look. Inside the empty hearth, among the ashes and remnants of burned wood something sticks out amidst the black. It is firm and solid within his palm, and for a moment Hector thinks his heart might stop. 

Hector runs his thumbs across its wooden surface, smoothing over fine, hand-carved details. As he angles it under the light he takes note of the outstretched wings, its fanned out, feathery tail and pointy beak, the size and weight of it reminding him of the trinkets he once played with as a child. 

It is charred in some places, the feeling of it brittle beneath his fingers. A memory long forgotten suddenly washes over him. The weather had been similar to this time of year, though warmer, more oppressive where he grew up in Greece. Hector had been but a boy, aimlessly wandering the fields near his home, like he so often did for the lack of having any friends to play with. 

He had been old enough, at the time, to grasp the concept of death. Hector had seen farm cats hunting the area as they kept the surrounding crops free from pests. He had seen an adder take down a newt in a single swallow, and he had shuddered at the sight of it, both mortified and completely transfixed. None of it hurt as much as this did.

The fledgeling that laid at his feet had looked so fragile, delicate like countless strands of spun glass in his arms. Hector remembered how often his father talked about alchemy, how important it all seemed to the well being of their family. Many a late night, Hector would slip into his father’s work chamber, pouring over tomes and scrolls he’d been explicitly forbidden from reading. He had only ever meant to make them proud, to prove that he was capable of doing _good._

His mother said nothing when he came home that day. Hector still recalls the image of her standing there, _petrified,_ clutching the table like she might fall if she were to let go of it, this gaunt, far off look on her face. His father had held out his broad palm, and with all the naivety of a child Hector fully trusted he’d be kind to his new friend. He quickly learned to know better afterwards.

No matter how many years have passed since then, it still aches to think of it, like an injury that never quite healed the way it should. Hector pockets the wooden toy, tucked away securely against his chest. He surveys the room, realizing it might be the first time he’d truly laid eyes on it after a week’s worth of sickness. 

Near the other side of the mantle there’s a crate, lined with skin and fur and not unlike the beds he once fashioned for his pets. Hector squints, and imagines the small dog or cat that might have called it their home. Quietly, he ventures further into what must be the cooking area. A large, hefty table marks the center of it, and aside from a humble set of bowls and utensils the kitchen’s inventory leaves much to be desired. Hector traces a finger where Isaac had cleared some of the dust before. It strikes him then: _no one appears to have lived here in quite a while._

There’s something unsettling about the vacancy of this house, like a faceless horror Hector cannot put a name to. Along the walls he finds ghosts, memories of what he can only guess to be its former residents. An old horse shoe, possibly from a trusty mare who served them well in times of need. Various bundles of dried herbs, meant to last through cold winter months, and a festive garland consisting of orange peel and pine; all of them dust-webbed, unattended, forgotten.

Beneath the bed he uncovers a sizable chest, full of trousers and tunics that appear to be not quite his measurements, skirts and stockings befitting of any respectable woman, and a pair of moth-eaten socks so small they barely fill the palm of his hand. Hector chooses not to take any of them. He buries the socks at the very bottom, as if that would prevent him from ever having to look at them again. 

It had been easy not to think about it, sheltered behind the walls of Dracula’s castle. It almost came naturally to lose himself in the comfort of repetition, to simplify it all to numbers and strategies. Not now, not here, not where the evidence is naked and bare for him to see. Hector wonders if the creatures he forged were responsible for what happened to these people. _He wonders if he is personally to blame for this._

The sharp glare of mid-day filters weakly into the room. Hector fidgets to adjust his improvised shirt, tugging at the material to wrap himself more tightly. He’s in the middle of securing the last knot when a gentle rapping startles him. Hector manages not to jump.

Isaac hovers at the open doorway, as if waiting for Hector to acknowledge his presence. When their eyes meet, only then does he enter. His gaze lingers a little longer than Hector would have liked.

“You seem better,” Isaac comments. He does not look at Hector while he says it. Instead, the other forgemaster busies himself with a burlap sack he’d been carrying, reaching inside to extract the very fresh corpse of a hare by its hind legs. 

“I bathed,” he offers as an explanation.

“It’s not that.” Isaac shakes his head, seemingly contemplating. He gently supports its neck as he lays the hare down on the kitchen table, depositing it with the rest of his findings. He turns to face Hector then. “You do not look as sickly.”

Hector narrows his eyes, but says nothing else when Isaac walks over to him.

“May I?” Hector looks to Isaac, then to his outstretched palm suspended in a familiar gesture. He swallows.

“Yes.”

Upon his forehead he feels the press of cool fingers, alternating between the front and back side of them. Isaac’s hand follows the line of his temple, applying light pressure around his ears and throat as if searching for signs of swelling. Hector holds his breath until it’s over. 

“I still cannot say what kind of ailment befell to you,” Isaac shrugs, huffing a small puff of air. “No matter what it was, it is gone now.”

 _So he still thinks it was merely an illness._ Hector has yet to decide whether that should make him feel guilty or incredibly lucky. He chooses the latter. 

“I’ve been thinking to spend more time outside now that I’ve mostly recovered. The fresh air might do me good.”

“—I’d rather you did not,” Isaac answers too quickly.

It takes a moment for the words to settle. Hector pulls a step back. “I thought you wanted me to believe I wasn’t your prisoner.” He does not miss the way Isaac’s eyes dart to where Hector knows his stitches have bled through. If there’s anything Isaac means to say about them, then he doesn’t speak up. Hector wets his lips, a sentence building on his tongue. “I wonder—”

“We are not having this conversation.” Hector narrowly dodges the impact as Isaac shoulders past him. “By all means, you can go, but do not expect me to be there should you act so _recklessly_ again.”

Whatever distance had been shrinking between them suddenly widens by tenfold. He’s barely afforded to gather his thoughts, because the next instant Isaac is leaving.

“Where are you going?” Hector whirls around, the words falling to Isaac’s back.

“Away. I have an ally not far from here.” Isaac speaks plainly, as if this is something he expects Hector to know. His path diverts by a fraction to gather a cloak and basket, the items draped across his arm. “I’d _assume_ you can manage without me, though I have been wrong before.” It’s all Isaac offers as a final clause.

The door creaks on its way open. Hector watches it swing shut behind him.

* * *

The walk to Miranda’s house seems to stretch on longer than it previously did. Isaac remembers the road well enough. He’d spent most of his childhood like this; young boys were, above all, energetic and capable of following simple instructions once given the right incentive. Mistakes were not taken kindly, and as the years progressed he learned to memorize land marks and layouts quickly. It is strange to consider how great these distances had seemed on legs that worked twice as hard to traverse them, how large and intimidating the world appeared when he was but a child. Oddly enough, this doesn’t feel too dissimilar.

Those days are long gone, and further behind him still. Isaac looks up and peers into the sky. The sun has yet to reach its peak. It warms the top of his head. Within the days to come the air will grow hot, the trees heavy with swollen fruit. Briefly, though unprompted, the shocked look on Hector’s face flashes before his mind's eye, his expression one of hurt and anger. Isaac tries not to dwell on it.

He turns the next bend, the crease of his brow lessening as a welcoming sight appears into view. Miranda doesn’t seem to have noticed him yet. Isaac does not expect her to. Either his all black attire makes him hard to distinguish, or her eyesight has simply waned too much with age and time. It matters little either way. Overhead he hears the tell-tale sound of a bird species he’d encountered in some regions of Africa, their silhouettes nearly black against the heavens, their wings long and narrow like scythes. _Swifts._

“Wondrous creatures, are they not?”

Isaac blinks for a moment, stopped short in his tracks. No one has been able to detect when he's approaching in a long while, except for one. He wasn’t human.

“My eyes may be bad. My ears and nose work just fine.” Miranda continues to face him with her back, bending to retrieve a sheet from a wide basket. Her skirts brush among the grass as she moves her weight around. “Help me with this for a moment, would you?” 

With a wave of her wrist she gestures for Isaac to come closer, and so he does. 

“I try to air out the linens once every two seasons,” she says, as if meaning to clarify. Her thumb smoothes out a wrinkle on the thick material between her fingers. “Though it becomes harder to do it alone with each passing year.” Miranda makes a strained noise when she comes back up, a hand pressed against her lower back. 

Isaac notes the labored rise of her chest, the slight gape of her mouth. _She looks terribly winded._ A small burst of guilt nips at him when he considers how all this time he’s done little to repay her in kind.

“You are forgetting something,” he offers. Miranda gives him a questioning look. “You are not alone, and I have time to kill.” It makes her smile.

Together they unload the rest of it, bedding, tablecloths and rags, draped across a rope suspended between two poles. It takes Isaac little time to figure where he can best compensate for most of the heavy bending, stretching and lifting. Miranda seems content to step aside and simply hand out directions where she deems it necessary. When they are done, she asks him if he would like to stay. Upon her patio awaits them a pitcher with refreshments, its contents smelling of fresh water and lemon balm. Isaac takes a seat left from her, exactly like he remembers doing last time.

“There’s little that I know about the migration of birds.” Miranda points to the slate roof tiles, a flash of feathers gracefully slipping under the moment Isaac directs his gaze. “But I know summer is here when they come. When the rafters grow noisy, the fruits are ripe for plucking.”

Isaac says nothing, choosing to merely listen.

“Now my husband on the other hand. He probably could have told you everything there is to know, about every animal he’s ever seen.” Miranda huffs a small laugh, her eyes distant as if lost in memory. She shrugs and the moment is gone. “He was an idiot. Couldn’t boil an egg right if his life depended on it.” 

The beginnings of a smile means to edge its way into his face. Isaac stifles it. He does not tell her who he was just reminded of. “Do you ever miss him?”

The abrupt silence that settles over them is telling, and Isaac knows then: this is something he shouldn’t have touched upon. Miranda wrings her hands together, her eyes obscured by unruly waves of grey hair. When she speaks again, she seems all too eager to change the subject.

“Is there anything I could do you for, Sir Forgemaster?” She looks at him expectantly, reaching up her sleeve for the pipe Isaac knows she keeps there. “I assume you came here with good reason.”

It’s been, at the very least, a week since they both arrived. A week since he traveled halfway across a continent with a single goal in mind. A week he’d spend caring for the man he was supposed to smite instead, looking so much like the way he’d left him and yet hardly the same. He still doesn’t know how to tell her that.

“I...” A brief pause to formulate his words. “I have not been entirely forthcoming.” Miranda arches a brow, but makes no attempt to interject. “When I returned from Styria, I did not come back alone.”

“Well...” Miranda retrieves a metal tool from her pocket. She fidgets with it for a bit, then starts cleaning out the hollow end. “How many are we talking about then? Who did you bring back?”

“No one of importance,” he lies. “There is only one. He hasn’t been well since we got here.” 

“And you’ve been trying to mend him on your own all this time?”

Isaac nods. “I have.”

Miranda shakes her head at him, her judgement audible in the weary sigh that leaves her. Isaac watches her reach for a small box, its contents resembling a blend of dried and ground up plants.

“There are _many_ names I would like to call you for pulling a stunt like that.” She plucks a tuft from its container and packs it into her pipe. “I will not name any of them.”

Miranda leans into her chair and takes a long drag, the smoke on her breath sweet like mint and a trace of something else.

“Before I can help either of you, I will need to know what we’re working with.”

She holds out her hand as if meaning to cite a list.

“This man. What was he like when you found him?”

“He looked... underfed. An enchanted ring bound him to that place. I had to sever his finger to release him from it. I do not know more than that.”

“So he was held captive?”

“I believe he was.” 

A visible shudder runs through her. “I’d rather not imagine what happened then. Those Styrians are as _cold_ and as _vicious_ as the lands they hail from.” She speaks the words as if they were acid on her tongue. “How willing has he been through all of it, despite your intentions?”

“There was a fever. It overtook him shortly after we left.” Isaac frowns. “The times he had been clear of head, he made sure to defy me every step of the way.”

“Good. That’s good.” To his surprise, she seems oddly relieved. “I would have found it much more worrisome had it been any different.”

“Is it?” Isaac gives her a disbelieving look. “I have tried to help him, and he’s been nothing but ungrateful. He barely lets me treat him.”

“Isaac, answer me honestly.” Miranda leans over to touch his hand, her skin chilled and paper thin against his own. He meets her eyes. “Would you have acted so differently, had you been in the same position?”

Isaac swallows, and for a bare second he feels uncomfortably small in her presence. 

“I’m...” He shakes his head. “I’m not sure.”

She smiles at him. It’s not a happy one.

“I’ve seen broken men before, and it’s not a pretty sight to behold. You are fortunate he’s not quite there yet, but be careful. If he’s being difficult, then I doubt this is simply a matter of personal offence.” She pats his arm gently, though it does little to appease him. 

Miranda sits back and takes another drag from her pipe. For a long while they say nothing to each other. Isaac stares into his cup. 

“What else do we know? Your friend, how is he now?”

Isaac wants to protest Hector is not his _friend._ He decides to think better of it.

“His illness is gone.” He grasps his chin as he tries to recall the events of the past few days. “The more physical afflictions, they are slow to heal. I have tried what I could, but my resources are limited.”

“I might know a thing or two to remedy that. I’ve been reliant on these lands long enough to know its secrets. What more does he need? Practical things such as shoes or clothes.”

Isaac looks her over once. His lip crinkles with a hint of mischief. “I doubt your robes will suit him all that well.” 

“Oh, I’d be careful with that mouth,” she tells him, waving a finger in mock accusation, “or it’s _you_ who’s leaving in a dress.”

Isaac feels his cheeks heat up, and for once he’s glad his skin is too dark for it to show. Miranda hides a grin behind her palm. She sniggers under her breath.

“Come inside with me.” She rises from her seat and empties the ashes from her pipe, stretching out a hand in invitation. “I’ve still kept some of my husband’s old clothing. I take it you’re the better judge if they will fit him or not.”

Miranda’s house is, as Isaac had half expected it to be, _suitably cluttered._

For every item in her home she seems to own three spare pieces at the very least. It is needless to say, there must have been plenty to go around after her settlement had been emptied of its population. Isaac doesn't think it odd of her to seize the opportunity; he would’ve done the same. Various pots and pans litter the kitchen walls, though few of them appear to have seen much use over the years. In the brightest corner of the room there’s a large, cushioned seat, a stack of books just within arm’s reach.

She tells him to wait, and Miranda disappears behind a set of heavy drapes, likely there to create a barrier between the bed and living area. Upon her return she carries a bundle of varying garments.

“How tall would you describe him?” Miranda lifts her arms, and holds a shirt up to Isaac’s chest as if trying to gage its size. 

“I have never given it much thought,” he admits, humming in contemplation. “About half a head shorter, I would say. Less muscular, though particularly wide in the shoulders.”

Miranda quirks a brow at him, teasing. “For someone who claims not to care, you certainly have been paying attention.”

Isaac ignores her goading. He gives her a sly look, choosing to neither deny nor confirm.

“I think this one would suit you better.”

He takes it from her and examines the material between his fingers. The color is a red so rich one could easily mistake it for black, its neckline high and modest like he prefers it to be, and cuffs with laces that tie snugly around the wrists. It looks well maintained, as though lovingly preserved after its former wearer had long come to pass _. Cherished._

“Are you certain you would like to part with these?” Isaac gives her a moment to respond. She doesn’t.

Her sudden intake of breath is a palpable thing between them. From his position he sees her reaching to wipe at her face. Isaac pretends not to notice.

“What good does it do to let it sit around and gather dust.” Her eyes are wet when she peers up at him. “I think he would be pleased, knowing someone else will be better off for it.”

Isaac touches her arm and smiles.

The sun hovers low over the horizon when he leaves, casting elongated shadows where he walks. Miranda had been nothing short of _insistent_ to provide him twice the rations he was given last time. He knows better than to go against her now.

Among his provisions there’s a salve to help Hector’s recovery along, and enough rolls of clean bandaging to last them another week. Isaac had picked several items for Hector to wear: shirts, stockings to keep his boots from chafing, trousers, and a belt to hold it all together. It’s not special by any means, but no less valuable for it. Miranda had pressed a comb into his hand the moment he planned to say goodbye. Isaac could guess she did not intend it for him.

His mind wanders to long term affairs, possibilities too far ahead for him to accurately predict. He thinks about his night horde, what became of the creatures lost in battle, how he would replenish their numbers. He considers how to proceed after all of this is done with, and both men are free to head their respective ways. None of that, however, still seems relevant in wake of the picture that greets him.

Upon the steps leading into their house sits Hector. He looks up when Isaac draws near, as though awaiting his return. 

Isaac observes the way Hector grasps the collar of his makeshift shirt, bunching the fabric beneath his knuckles. His brow is drawn tightly above his eyes. His lips are pressed together, making them look thinner than they are. He does not look comfortable. 

“Will you sit with me for a moment?” Hector asks.

Isaac nods. He takes a seat at Hector’s side.

Hector twists at the waist to reach behind them, just beyond the threshold of their abode. His hands come back presenting a bowl in each, its contents steaming and hot. Isaac accepts when Hector offers one to him.

“I wanted to apologize. It probably doesn’t taste like much, but...” Hector stills, biting the inside of his lip. He meets Isaac’s stare. “You’ve been kind to me, and—”

“Do not mistake my leniency for kindness,” Isaac cuts him off. He takes a spoonful of soup. It is under seasoned and overcooked. “There are worse fates on this earth than betrayal, even worse than death. I saw no need to strike a man who endured both.” 

Isaac waits for a response, but there’s nothing Hector has to say to that. The other forgemaster falls silent and stares into his meal. For once Isaac is unable to read what Hector is thinking or feeling. He finds it strangely worrying. 

“I could teach you how to cook, if that is something you would like,” Isaac proffers.

“I have no doubts that would be better for both of us.” Hector rubs the back of his neck. “I’m afraid I never quite got the hang of it. I didn’t cook much when I lived on my own.”

Isaac watches as Hector aimlessly stirs his food around, and he gets the distinct feeling there’s more still weighing on the other forgemaster’s mind. 

“May I ask you something?”

Isaac hums an encouraging noise, swallowing around another mouthful.

“Why did you bring my hammer with you when we left Styria? It wasn’t even my own, but a replacement for the one I’d lost. You didn’t have to, yet you still did.”

Isaac thinks about that for a while. It had been a hasteful decision when he ordered one of his creatures to snatch it. A thoughtless action, like so many he’d made on that fateful day. In the end, the answer is simple.

“It would have been the same as taking a man’s leg while there was nothing wrong with it.” Isaac takes out his arcane focus, and tries to imagine how he’d feel had it been lost on him. His fingers trace along the center of the blade, down to the tiny gem at its base, each carefully selected detail as familiar as his own name. “To separate a forgemaster from their ability to forge, it would seem like a terribly cruel joke.”

“Oh.” Hector looks... unsure of what he should make of that. “I suppose I haven’t thought of it that way.” 

“Earlier you told me you’ve been wanting to go outside, is it not?”

“I remember saying that,” Hector admits. The wariness in his stature is plain for Isaac to see, like an animal knowing it’s about to be baited with a treat.

“I could show you the area. That way, you will know your way around.”

Hector tilts his head. He studies Isaac as if he might find hidden answers there. “What made you change your mind?”

“Does it really matter?”

For a tense beat Hector only looks at him. “You might be right.” He shakes his head dismissively. “It shouldn’t.”

There’s an odd clip to the words, telling Isaac there is more to it than Hector’s currently letting on. He does not comment on it. As both men empty their dish the sky darkens above them, casting the mountains in a brilliance of violet and maroon.

Hector holds out a hand, shielding his eyes from the last blinding rays of light. “I expect it to be another cold night. We’d better get a fire going.”

And with that said, Isaac follows him inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a hot minute, *cough*a few months*cough.*  
> I hope you've all enjoyed this extra long chapter. My apologies for the prolonged wait.  
>   
> Please, please, please, let me know what you think if you've enjoyed it, and I will see you next time.  
>   
> Clemency: the act of bestowing kindness upon someone considered undeserving of it.


End file.
